Heedless of the Wind and Weather
by Night Monkey
Summary: The Doctor faces a less than merry Christmas when he is separated from Clara and thrown in jail. To pass the time, the Doctor introduces his fellow prisoners to the joy of Earth holidays and red-nosed reindeer.


I haven't written anything _Doctor Who_ related in far too long, and I decided to correct it with this little Christmas fic. Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

Nobody wanted to be alone on Christmas Eve, but, as the Doctor had discovered over the past few hours, there was considerably worse ways to spend the day. Like being caught up in violent revolution, kicked in the head and various other places by counterrevolutionary forces, and then thrown in jail. Where there was more kicking. And name-calling. And even a bit of spitting. Now, spitting, that was just rude. Who spat on people? The jailers in this part of the galaxy, apparently.

"They aren't going to forget about us. They'll be back. They promised."

The Doctor rolled over and looked at his cellmate. "I hope you're right, because in my experience, the great vague 'they' tend to be unreliable."

"You don't know the People's Liberation Alliance. I've been fighting with them for ten years, and they don't forget their own. They _will_ be back for us. It's only a matter of time."

From a neighboring cell, a less optimistic prisoner said, "Then they better bleeding hurry. How long do you think we'll have before the public executions start? I'll tell you: not very long."

"They'll save us."

The Doctor, not being familiar with the PLA's track record, couldn't weigh in on their chances of arriving in time. Even if he'd been more knowledgeable, his head hurt too much from being booted about like a rugby ball for him to contemplate any data sets and reach any conclusions. All he could do, as he closed his eyes and let the arguing prisoners lull him to sleep, was hope the optimist was right.

He'd entrusted Clara to those people, after all, and he would prefer the next time she saw him not be as he was tied to a post in front of a firing squad and his death was broadcast on the planet-wide television network.

* * *

The Doctor dreamed. He knew he was dreaming, or stuck in a time loop, and given the relatively stable temporal state of this section of the universe, dreaming was more likely. So dreaming it was. All this was in his head, in his memories. The screaming, the running, the boom of explosions and the _ping_ of ricocheting bullets, and the passing Clara off like a sack of supplies, all of it was over already. He'd already shoved her into an overloaded transporter, already brushed off her grasping fingers, already given her an aloof thumbs-up as the transporter evacuated her and dozens of others for the safety of the nearby moon.

Only this time, instead of watching the transporter blast away into the atmosphere, the Doctor saw a rocket slam into its side. The vessel listed, mortally wounded, as black smoke billowed from the gaping hole. Crippled beyond any hope, the transporter tumbled towards the ground.

"Clara!" the Doctor screamed.

"Wake up! You're fine, stop shouting and wake up!"

The Doctor opened his eyes and blinked. Hovering above him was the blue face of his cellmate.

"They did get away, didn't they?" the Doctor asked.

"Yes, they did. We didn't lose one evacuation shuttle."

The Doctor breathed a sigh of relief. What a rubbish dream, telling nasty lies like that.

"The PLA show up yet?"

The cellmate cracked a smile. "Not yet. But you were only sleeping for an hour. They aren't _that _good."

"Wish they were."

"So do I. Go back to sleep if you'd like. I'll poke at you if you start shouting again."

Closing his eyes sounded like the perfect plan, but just as the Doctor did so, he began to beep. Well, not him, per se, but something on his body. He rattled his pockets and checked his boots before realizing he was being a numpty. The beeping was courtesy of a watch strapped, logically, on the Doctor's wrist. He turned off the alarm and checked the time. The watch displayed 12:00 in the morning. A new day had just begun on Earth, ten thousand light years away.

"It's Christmas," the Doctor said softly.

"That device?"

"No, this is a watch; it tells Earth time. Christmas is a holiday, like Snorken Day. Only with fewer burning shoes. People exchange gifts and eat until they're ashamed of themselves, and then they eat some more."

"Sounds...interesting," the cellmate allowed.

"It's better than interesting, it's fantastic. I did mention the eating and the gifts, right? Good. And there are songs, and cartoons about magic deer, and Father Christmas-"

"Who's Father Christmas?"

"I was getting to him, be patient."

The cellmate held up his tentacles to placate the Doctor.

"He's a happy fat man who delivers gifts to nice children, and coal to naughty children. Though why you'd give naughty children something hard they can throw at people, I don't know."

"One overweight man gives gifts to _all_ the nice children? How? Are there very few nice children on Earth?" the pessimist from one cell over asked.

"No, most children are nice. At least a majority. And Father Christmas doesn't _really _exist. He's a story, so he can do whatever he likes. Like fit down chimneys and deliver a billion gifts in one night," the Doctor explained.

"Are there lots of stories about Father Christmas?" the optimist asked.

"Oh yes. And songs, and poems, and little greeting cards you send to people you don't like enough to send gifts to."

All this talk of magical fat gift-givers and the musical lore surrounding him caught the attention of the nearby prisoners. One by one they decided hearing Earth stories about this "Christmas" business was much better than staring at grey stone walls and iron bars and waiting for the guards to come back, and before long, anyone within earshot of the Doctor was clamoring for a song or a fable.

"If I'm going to do this, I've got to be properly attired," the Doctor said. He fished around in his jacket's pockets and finally produced a slightly squashed red paper crown. He frowned at the crown. It was Clara's. He smoothed it out properly before replacing it in the depths of his pockets, and then went back to hunting for his own crown.

"How? I- What- How deep are your pockets?!" The pessimist gaped.

"Time Lord pockets. Bigger on the inside. Sometimes I think a bit too big. But you never know when you may need...a rubber chicken. Hmm. I have no idea when I'll need this." The rubber chicken joined Clara's crown, and who knew what else, in the pocket abyss. "Ooh, here we go!"

The Doctor's crown was purple, and far, far more squashed than Clara's. Perhaps the rubber chicken had landed on it. The Doctor straightened it best he could, and then placed it on his head.

"Ta-da! Now, what Christmas story do you want to hear first? _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_? _A Christmas Carol_? I met that one's author, by the way. There were ghosts who were really inter-dimensional aliens. Or what about _How the Grinch Stole Christmas!_; I'm afraid I'm no Boris Karloff, not that any of you can judge."

"Are those all about Father Christmas?" the optimist asked.

"Father Christmas!" several other prisoners echoed.

"That's all you want to hear about?" the Doctor asked.

"You did sort of build it up," the pessimist pointed out.

"Fine, I'll tell you about Father Christmas. Gather round. Er, sorry, can't really move, can you? Eh, just listen up then!"

The Doctor cleared his throat and began, "Father Christmas lives at the North Pole. On Earth. There's ice there. He obviously can't live on the North Pole here, because there's only water. Though since's he magical, I guess nobody could tell him off if he decided to try. Agh, if I start to ramble, tell me. And if I don't listen, here, throw this at me." The Doctor pulled the rubber chicken from his pocket and handed it to his cellmate.

"Now where was I? Right, the North Pole on Earth. Where there's ice. Father Christmas has a workshop where he and his elves make toys for all the good children. And mine for coal for the bad children, I suppose. That part isn't usually covered. But they work day and night, all year long, until Christmas Eve. Then they load the toys into a sack-"

"How'd they get a sack big enough? And how does Father Christmas carry it? And how-"

"I'm getting to it!" the Doctor "It's like...like my pockets! Bigger on the inside. So he only needs a small sack to hold all those gifts. Hmm, maybe Saint Nick's a bit Time Lord. Wonder if that's my fault."

The rubber chicken bounced off the Doctor's head. He whipped around to glare at his cellmate.

"You told me to," the optimist said.

"Back to the story!" A prisoner of undetermined life views demanded. She was joined by a chorus of agreement.

"Fine. Father Christmas with his bigger-on-the-inside bag gets all the toys together, and then he gets on his sleigh. A sleigh's a vehicle that travels in snow. Snow is frozen water. No, you don't really have that here. But it's fun. This doesn't really matter, because Father Christmas' sleigh travels in the air. Oi! I. Am. Getting. To. That!"

The Doctor cast his best Oncoming Storm glare at his fellow prisoners, and they calmed down considerably. Once the jail stopped sounding like a kindergarten during story time, the Doctor took a deep breath and continued.

"Reindeer. Father Christmas has magic flying reindeer that pull his sleigh. Reindeer are animals with hooves and antlers." The Doctor raised his hands and spread his fingers, like he was showing how to count to five. He then places his hands on top of his head to mime what antlers were. The prisoners who were close enough nodded, and then, using tentacles that weren't quite as effective as fingers, conveyed the image to anyone too far away to see.

Once the antler-sign had made its round, the Doctor picked up, "These reindeer fly Father Christmas all over the globe, to all the good children's houses. He knows who's been naughty or nice because he keeps a list. No, it's not remotely like the list of dissidents they keep in the Capital. Oh, really? Maybe it is a bit, then. Hmm, they never really cover this part in the stories, either. But Father Christmas does not place anyone in internment camps. I promise. The worst he does is give you coal."

"Father Christmas comes down the chimney, or in the front door if you haven't got a chimney, or through a window if, for some reason, you decided doors weren't cool. And then he leaves your presents, and you find them the next morning. Then on Christmas Day, you and your siblings have a day-long row over who got the best gifts, and then comes the eating to the point of shame bit I mentioned earlier. That's the story of Father Christmas."

There was a brief moment of silence, and then all curious hell broke loose. Tentacles flapped left and right as each prisoner scrambled for the Doctor's attention.

"What's he look like? Father Christmas, what's he look like?" "How'd this story get started?" "What's an elf?" "Are you completely sure Father Christmas never sentenced even one terrible, terrible child to hard labor?"

The Doctor was taken aback. This ragtag group of captured soldiers was utterly insatiable! And frighteningly obsessed with seeing old Saint Nick as some Orwellian figure. The Doctor couldn't live with himself (or face a firing squad) knowing he had done Father Christmas such a bizarre disservice.

"I promise, Father Christmas does not kidnap children, no matter how naughty they are. An elf is like a little human, with pointy ears, who's good at making toys. It's a very long story, and not as much fun as other stories. So we're going to skip it. As for what Father Christmas looks like, I did mention he's fat. And he's got a red suit like-"

"The guards!"

"Come off it! Father Christmas does not work for repressive governments!"

"No, the guards are coming!" Came the alarm from the end of the hall.

"But I need to know about Randolph the Red Deer before I die!" a prisoner wailed.

"All the other reindeer made fun of him because his nose glowed, until Father Christmas needed him one foggy night," the Doctor said as the distinct and dreadful thump of several pairs of jackboots drew closer.

All the chatter and excitement evaporated instantly. The jackboots could have been stomping around a lifeless void for all the noise the prisoners made.

The guards, three of them, turned a corner and came into view. Their uniforms were indeed red, but beyond that, they didn't look much like Father Christmas. For one thing, the Doctor highly doubted the jolly old gift-giver carried a compact laser pistol.

There was a slight shifting of clothing from the Doctor's right, and he turned his head to see the optimist stand. Without a word, the optimist approached the bars of the cell. He brushed a patch of his dirty uniform, and then showed the three guards whatever was there.

"As the highest ranking officer currently in your custody, I beg you take my life and spare my troops."

Now the Doctor understood. As the optimist had said earlier, he'd been with the PLA for ten years. Almost from the very beginning then. And he'd earned his general's stars.

The guard commander, marked by her much more embellished and even less-festive uniform, drew her pistol. The Doctor shot to his feet. He thrust his way past the optimist, putting his own body between the ragged prisoner and his would-be executioner.

"He's lying!" the Doctor said.

The commander tilted her head and looked at the Doctor the way one would look at a naked man juggling live cats outside one's window.

"I'm the highest ranking officer," the Time Lord continued. "He may be a fancy-schmancy general, but I'm the Doctor."

"A medic outranks a general?" the commander asked.

"What are you doing? You're not even technically enlisted! Why are you throwing your life away?" the optimist said.

"Christmas miracle," the Doctor replied. "And it isn't 'throwing it away' if you do it to save someone else. Someone deserving, and clever, who can lead his planet to peace."

"A miracle? How very curious you should mention that," the commander said. "There seems to be quite a few of them going around."

"Ooh, someone's being cryptic," the Doctor said.

The commander grinned and holstered her pistol. "Today we saw something most out of the ordinary, didn't we?"

The two flanking guards both nodded. "It was very strange. Never thought it'd happen, honestly."

The commander laughed. "That's because you didn't have enough faith."

"Some is being a little _too_ cryptic. I'm supposed to be the cryptic one here! Stop stealing my job!" the Doctor protested.

A lithe blue tentacle slithered through the bars and poked the Doctor in the chest. The commander, and owner of the tentacle, said, "Calm down. I'm getting there. Oh, I've never poked anything quite like you before. I'll explain in a moment. He needs more poking."

The Doctor stepped back. "I certainly do not."

"Fine, ruin my fun." The commander sighed. "We were sitting up in the control room, you see, when communications started dying. Not just in the prison. All around the Capital. Satellite link-ups, security cameras, computers, even the state media feeds. It was so sudden and so complete, you'd almost think-"

"It was an inside job."

The commander drew her pistol again. "Don't think I won't use this."

Now it was the Doctor's turn to grin. "I don't think you won't. I _know_ you won't."

The rest of the prisoners figured it out almost simultaneously. There were several gasps, and some naughty but well-intentioned language.

"The revolution is here," the commander said. "And it's all-but-won. Just before the satellite feeds died, this was the last broadcast."

The commander reached into her pocket and retrieved a tiny communicator complete with video screen. She fiddled with the device and the screen came alive. It crackled with static, evidence of the satellite's moribund nature, but the image was clear enough to make out. Spaceships. A small armada. Promised reinforcements that had finally arrived. The commander handed the communicator to the guard on her left, who in turn placed it into the grasping tentacle of the prisoner nearest to him. From there, it was passed along, an image for the history books.

"The Diaturns and Nidis finally stopped sitting on the fence. With them, the PLA should have more than enough weaponry and manpower to finish this fight."

Having said that, the commander unzipped her coat. Her fellow guards did the same. They happily threw their coats on the ground, though the commander passed her through the bars. The Doctor accepted it.

"Sorry to say we've been watching you on the security cameras. So intrusive, I know, but we had to maintain appearances. We liked your stories, Doctor. They're hopeful. Please, now show us what this Father Christmas looks like," the commander said.

* * *

Clara, escorted by a platoon of rebel soldiers, entered the hallway. The prisoners took a moment to look at her and the soldiers, but quickly refocused their attention to something at the end of the hall. She put a little pep in her step and hurried ahead of her escorts to see what all the fuss was about.

It was the Doctor. Of course.

He was dressed in a red coat that was far too big for him. Not that the fit mattered. He'd stuffed the front of the coat with...something...and now it was a lumpy, bumpy, misshapen bulge. On top of the coat, the Doctor was wearing a martial hat that he'd decorated with a bit of grey fluff. He had a bag, which looked like it had been made from yet another coat, swung over his shoulder.

"Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!" the Doctor said.

Clara dissolved into a giggling fit.

The Doctor dropped his improvised sack. "Clara?"

"Yep. Me and the army. Or a part of it. We're here to rescue you. Though if you're having that much fun, we can come back later."

"Not necessary! I'm not having any fun at all. None. Whatsoever." The Doctor tipped off his hat and kicked it behind the bag.

"In that case, commence the rescuing." Clara approached the bars and handed something to the Doctor. His eyes widened.

"You found my sonic screwdriver!"

"They had it locked up with all the other contraband."

The Doctor hugged his sonic screwdriver. He then reached through the bars and gave Clara an awkward, one-handed hug that failed to impress her.

"Let's try that again when I'm out of here."

With his sonic screwdriver restored, the Doctor was able to open the cell door in a matter of seconds. He entrusted the screwdriver to the optimist general, and then gave Clara a proper thank-you-for-rescuing-me hug.

Once all the prisoners had been released and the sonic had been given back and thanks and more hugs had been exchanged and the commander had gotten her fill of poking the Doctor, the Time Lord and his companion took their leave.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Clara said, "This is not the planet with the universe's biggest scented candle market."

"Nope. Must have miscarried a decimal somewhere. Sorry about that. I'll get it right this time."

"What if I don't want to go there anymore? What if I want to go home because I thought we were both going to die and I can't take any more of that?"

"Then I will have the worst Christmas ever," the Doctor replied. He fetched Clara's paper crown and jammed it on her head. "And the Maitland home will not get to smell like pine, cinnamon, or salmon."

"I am not buying a salmon-scented candle!" Clara protested.

"Why? It'll be a great gift. Angie and Artie will love it."

"No, they'll hate it and I'll be sacked for making the house smell awful."

"Then I'll buy it, and they can love me instead."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Fine. But it'll be your head."

"Yes, it will be. My head. Being loved and adored by children. Not your head. Your head's going to have a sad Christmas."

"Everyone's going to have a sad Christmas if I'm not back before Angie and Artie wake up."

The Doctor looked at his watch. "We'd better hurry then. Since I haven't got a time machine or anything."

Clara punched him in the arm. "Just watch out for those zeroes this time. I don't want to spend New Year's in a dungeon."

* * *

The End

Thanks for reading and happy holidays.


End file.
